Certain Is It That There Is No

I Think I May Define Taste To Be That Faculty Of The Soul Which Discerns The Beauties Of An Author With Pleasure, And The Imperfections With Dislike.

It Generally Takes Its Rise Either From An Ill-will To Mankind, A Private Inclination To Make Ourselves Esteemed, An Ostentation Of Wit, And Vanity Of Being Thought In The Secrets Of The World; Or From A Desire Of Gratifying Any Of These Dispositions Of Mind In Those Persons With Whom We Converse.

Ridicule Is Generally Made Use Of To Laugh Men Out Of Virtue And Good Sense, By Attacking Everything Praiseworthy In Human Life.

For Ever Singing As They Shine, The Hand That Made Us Is Divine.

Our Admiration Of A Famous Man Lessens Upon Our Nearer Acquaintance With Him; And We Seldom Hear Of A Celebrated Person Without A Catalogue Of Some Notorious Weaknesses And Infirmities.